Turquoise and Ruby

“The balance, child!” said Brenda. “I haven’t a penny – not a penny over. In fact, although I wouldn’t trouble your father, you are a little bit in debt to me – I mean the gloves – I couldn’t tell you, and you had to have gloves – but I paid for the gloves.”

“Oh – you wicked Brenda!” said Fanchon – “you intolerably wicked woman! Nina talked to father yesterday, and father told her that he gave you three pounds for each of us, in order to clothe us for the seaside. So you have still in your possession seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money. It’s my belief that you have spent it on your own clothes! There – you can’t deny it – we know what the things you bought cost – the miserable – horrid —mean things you bought! and we know what poor papa gave you, for he told Nina and afterwards I went and asked him and he told me too.”

“And does he – does he know – anything else?” asked Brenda.

“Nothing else at present, but he will soon.”

Brenda lay very still and thoughtful on her bed. After a minute she said:

“Fanchon – you are quite mistaken in me.”

“I know you thoroughly,” said Fanchon; “I always believed you to be intensely conceited, frightfully – appallingly vain, and – not too honourable. But now I also know that you are nothing more nor less than a common thief! How long do you think father would keep you in the house if he knew?”

“But – he doesn’t know, dear, dear Fanchon!”

“Not yet. We thought we’d tell you first – it seemed only fair to give you that chance.”

“How sweet of you, Fanchon.”

“But I have told you now, and I shall go straight to him this very minute and show him this little sum unless you confess the truth to me.”

“I – I – ” said Brenda – “what truth?”

“Have you got seven pounds, sixteen shillings, and eleven-pence of our money in your possession? If you say no – I go immediately to father. If you say yes – why, perhaps I will wait an hour or so.”

Brenda almost smiled when Fanchon made use of the last words.

“Then,” she said in a gentle tone, “I have still got the money, for you – for you. I thought we could spend it best at Marshlands-on-the-Sea.”

“Oh, no, you didn’t,” said Fanchon – “those sort of lies won’t go down any longer with us. But as you have made a sort of confession, you may dress yourself. You won’t grumble, I think, when you come downstairs and enjoy our good dinner, and after dinner I’ll have another talk with you. It is my turn to dictate terms now, and I mean to enjoy myself.”

With this last remark Fanchon marched out of the room, wrenching the door open noisily and banging it after her. Her two little sisters were waiting on the landing.

“The cat has confessed,” she said, “and so the poor little mice may play as much as they like. Not a word to dad – we’d have no fun if he knew – we can do exactly what we like with her now.”

Josephine clapped her hands. Nina enquired if the ducks and green peas and raspberry and currant tart, with unlimited cream, had been mentioned.

“Oh, yes; and we shall enjoy our dinner – poor starved creatures,” said Fanchon.

The three girls tripped downstairs. The old rectory was already full of the odorous smell of roast duck. Mr Amberley perceived it in his study. He slightly sniffed, and thought of toasted cheese. He felt pangs of hunger which, as a rule, he was not accustomed to. The girls were flying about: they seemed in high spirits.

“What a delightful day it is,” thought the rector to himself, and he shut up the musty old Josephus with a bang and decided to give an old sermon for the sixth time of hearing to his parishioners on Sunday, and not to worry any more about a new one until the hot weather was over. He even went to the length of standing by the open study window and looking across the sun-flecked garden.

Presently, he saw his daughters entering the house with trailing flowers of all sorts and descriptions in their arms. He wondered what could be up. Josephine, who had a certain knack for the arrangement of dinner tables, was laying a white cloth on the board. In the centre she placed billowy piles of green art muslin which she had bought that morning in the village – or rather, put down to the housekeeping account. Rows of sweet peas and carnations were then placed in bowls in the centre of the table and, this handiwork having been completed, Josie rushed up to her room to put on the best dress she possessed. In short, the entire place wore a festive air.

“It’s because dear Brenda has returned,” thought the rector.

He felt the difference without observing it. But when sharp little Fanchon appeared and led him into the dining-room and he beheld with his own eyes two plump birds waiting to be carved, and saw the green peas, and the new potatoes, and the apple sauce, and the different accompaniments of young ducks, he forgot everything in the joy of gratifying his appetite.

The three girls were waiting – no servant ever attended at meals, – their faces were flushed with delight. The rector did not even ask, “Where is Brenda?” He flopped down into his seat, said grace, and began to carve the birds.

Brenda entered in a pale green cotton dress, which suited her lissom young figure to perfection. She took her seat meekly. The girls did not speak to her, but the rector addressed her with enthusiasm.

“My dear,” – he said – “what a delicious feast we are having, and how very good of you to manage it out of the housekeeping money. I know – my dear Brenda – that I give you far too little; but my stipend, my dear, is so small, and the needs of my poor so considerable – ”

“There’s raspberry tart and cream coming on,” said Nina, “so let’s hurry up with the ducks.”

The rector placed the first delicious morsel between his lips. Brenda made a gentle remark to the effect that she was glad she had pleased him. Nina gave a groan; Joey kicked her sister’s foot; Fanchon tried to look stately, but failed. Notwithstanding all these things, however, the three girls and their father thoroughly enjoyed the excellent dinner.

“I feel a new man,” said Mr Amberley, when it was over. “It is wonderful how supporting really tasty food is. My dear Brenda, I thank you.”

She bowed to him – a mocking light in her eyes which he did not observe.

Chapter Eleven

Reaction

It was after dinner that Fanchon approached her governess.

“I hope you enjoyed your dinner,” she said.

“Yes; it was very good,” said Brenda.

“When do you feel inclined to have a chat with me?” pursued Fanchon.

“Not just at present,” answered Brenda.

“But you’d better be quick about it, for we mean always to live well in the future. Joey and I think that we might order a crab for supper to-night – papa loves crabs.”

Brenda was silent.

“When can we have our talk?” continued Fanchon.

“Well, I don’t think just at present; will you give me until evening? Order what you wish to-day, but don’t be too extravagant, you’ll only have an illness. I give you plain food, for it is really best from every point of view, and your father’s allowance of housekeeping money is very limited.”

“I can ask him, of course, what he does give,” said Fanchon.

“No, no; don’t do that – ”

“And,” continued Fanchon, as though she had not heard the last remark, “I can find out what the butcher’s bills, and the green grocer’s, and the grocer’s come to per week. I shall be rather clever about these things in future.”

Brenda made no reply. After a minute’s pause, she said:

“Would you really like me to leave you?”

“I think, on the whole, I should very much.”

“You would wish to give up going to Marshlands-on-the-Sea?”

“No – that would be a disappointment.”

“You can’t go there without me.”

“Oh – I suppose we could get some one else.”

“There is no one else whom your father would trust.”

Fanchon was silent and a little thoughtful.

“I have a plan to propose to you, Fanchon,” said her governess suddenly; “but I shall not propose it now – I will keep it until to-night. To-night, at ten o’clock, come to my room and I will talk to you. In the meantime, tell the other girls that for to-day, just for to-day, they may do as they please. Now let me be alone; I have a headache.”

Fanchon danced off to communicate this news to her sisters.

“The cat’s caving in like anything,” she said. “We shall have a jolly, jolly time in future!”

“What can we have to eat at tea-time?” was Nina’s remark.

“Oh – you little goose,” exclaimed Fanchon, “you can’t possibly be hungry yet.”

“But I shall be hungry when tea-time comes.”

“Well, get what you like, both of you.”

“Let’s go to the shops this blessed minute,” said Nina, turning to Josephine.

They started off arm in arm. They did not mind the fact that they were wearing their only white frocks – their Sunday-go-to-meeting frocks, and that Nina’s was already sadly stained with some juice from the raspberry tart. They did not mind the fact also that they had outgrown these frocks, and that the people stared at the rector’s daughters when they were at all respectably attired. They were too excited to think of anything but the victory they were having over old pussy-cat – which was their present name for their hitherto beloved Brenda.

They went to the shops where Brenda dealt, and ordered rich plum cake for tea, two sorts of jam, some more fruit and some more cream; and for supper they ordered crabs – two crabs to be sent up dressed, from the fishmonger’s, also a lobster, and also a large plate of prawns. Having thus wilfully expended money which might have kept the rectory on its ordinary régime for weeks, they returned home in the best of spirits.

’Tis a little sad to relate that even mice, in their moments of triumph over their legendary foe – the domestic cat – may sometimes overdo things. For two of these little mice felt decidedly ill that night from the direful effects of overeating. Nina spent that night, which she had felt would be of such triumph, rolling from side to side in bed and crying out with pain, and Josephine had the most appalling succession of nightmares. But Fanchon was more moderate in her eating and, therefore, did not suffer. She had her work cut out for her; and that evening, at the appointed hour – regardless of Nina’s cries and Josephine’s frightened exclamations in her sleep – she went off to interview her governess in her bedroom.

Brenda was waiting for her, and was quite ready. She had been frightened, terribly frightened, in the morning, but she was alarmed no longer. She had been given time to think, to consider, to form her plans. The discovery which those tiresome children had made was altogether most unpleasant. Had it been made by older people, it would almost have been dangerous. But Brenda felt that she could manage the children. She must sacrifice something, it is true, but she need not sacrifice everything.

The girls had never been trained in high principles. They had been brought up anyhow. The rector was not a specially admirable man. It is true, he lived according to his lights, but these did not carry him far. His children were motherless, and it did not occur to him to suspect the girl into whose care he placed them. He was devoted to his poorer parishioners, and was kindness itself to them, denying himself many things for their benefit. But it was his object in life to do what he could for his orphans, and he thought he had done so when he put such a pretty, charming girl as Brenda Carlton over their heads. He believed fully in Brenda, and admired her immensely. He thought her a truly Christian young woman; for she was regular in her attendance at church, and always looked – he considered – so sweet and interested when he preached to her. It was wonderful how he found himself preaching directly to her, Sunday after Sunday, suiting his words to her need and thinking of her as he addressed, or was supposed to address, his congregation.

As to the children’s education, he expected them to go to Sunday school; but as their teacher there was no other than Brenda herself, it cannot be said that they gained much by this special instruction.

Brenda looked very pretty when she taught her class. Most of the time she told them good little stories, which they listened to when they were not too restless, and when Brenda herself was not too charmingly attired. On the whole, the girls were ripe for a fall, and Brenda had no compunction in saving herself at their expense. These three girls had, however, a considerable amount of character, and, strange as it may seem, the one the governess most dreaded was the youngest. For Nina was exceedingly fearless, and also rather cunning, and Brenda was not quite certain that if she gave her word she would keep it. The governess felt pretty sure that she could manage Fanchon and Josephine, but Nina was different. All things considered, however, she had to make the best of a bad job, and if she could only get through that happy time at Marshlands-on-the-Sea, she felt convinced that all would be well with her in the future. She, accordingly, welcomed Fanchon now with a smile, and immediately took the lead.

“Just for all the world,” repeated Fanchon afterwards when she gave her sisters a partial account of this interview, “as if she were in the right and I was her little culprit at the bar!”

“Sit down, dear Fanchon,” said Brenda. “Take this cosy seat by the open window – isn’t the night very warm?”

“Yes – very,” said Fanchon.

She took the proffered seat and the governess placed herself on the window ledge near by.

“We shall enjoy our time at the sea,” said Brenda, “shall we not?”

Fanchon did not answer. She was gazing in surprise at Brenda, who, prettily dressed in soft white muslin, looked more charming even than usual.

“The cool sea breezes will be so refreshing,” continued the governess – “I am picturing the whole scene. I am going to be, of course, very particular with regard to Josie and Nina; but you, Fanchon, who are so tall for your age, can come out with me in the evening and listen to the band and – and – partake of any sort of fun that is going on.”

“Can I really?” said Fanchon, her eyes sparkling, and, for a minute, she forgot that she was really the judge and Brenda the criminal.

“Of course you can, dear; I mean you to have a good time.”

“But can’t we settle that afterwards?” said Fanchon. “The other thing has to be arranged first, hasn’t it?”

“What other thing, my dear?”

“Oh, Brenda – you know – don’t pretend that you forget. I gave you a fright – a big fright – this morning, and you – you cried. What are you going to do about the money? you have it – you know, and it isn’t yours, it’s ours.”

“I have it, of course,” said Brenda, “I have not denied it. I told you that I thought of spending it at Marshlands; there’ll be sure to be nice shops there, and we can see the things that’ll be suitable. You don’t suppose, you poor children, that you can manage with only those pink muslin dresses – that would never, never do – I had no such thought, I assure you.”

“But,” persisted Fanchon, “you said this morning that you had spent all the money on us, and that we owed you for the gloves. Oh, how knowing you are, Brenda, but you have overstepped the mark this time, and poor papa, if he knew – ”

Brenda lowered her eyes. She had very thick and very curling jet-black lashes, and they looked sweet as they rested against her blooming cheeks. Fanchon could not help noticing them and, further, she could not help observing the gentle smile that played round her lips.

“Now, listen,” said Brenda. “I want to confide in you. You can believe in me or not – just as you please. I cannot possibly force your belief, nor can I force you to do anything but what you wish. I am, to a certain extent, in your power, and in the power of the other two girls. You can tell your father, and he will dismiss me, and – I shall be ruined – ”

“Oh, I don’t suppose papa will be so very hard with you. He’s quite fond of you, you know,” said Fanchon.

“He would be terribly severe,” said Brenda. “He is a dear good man, but he would be terrible, fearful, if you told him – you three – what you have found out. I tell you, Fanchon, why he would be so fearful. Because I have done what I have done entirely for the sake of deceiving him.”

“Oh dear! dear! Then you are even more wicked than I thought,” said Fanchon.

“Listen – the position is a very strange one. I seem to forget, as I am talking to you, that I am your governess, and that you and your sisters are my little pupils, but the facts are those: I look upon you, Fanchon, as very much older than your years. You have, in many ways, the mind of a grown-up woman. Of course you are very young, quite unformed, but you will be grown up sooner than most girls; and you have an understanding way, and I think you will follow me now if I try hard to explain myself.”

“I wish you would begin,” said Fanchon then, restlessly, “you do so beat about the bush. You said this morning that you hadn’t a penny over, and that we owed you for the gloves; and then, afterwards, you confessed that you had something over – an awful lot over – and that you meant to spend it at Marshlands. You told one lie, anyway.”

“Yes, I told one lie, anyway,” responded Brenda, intense sadness in her tone. “I told one dreadful, wicked lie, and I am very, very sorry – ”

“Oh, I wonder if you are!”

“Yes, I am – I am; that was why I cried that time.”

“It wasn’t – you cried because you were in a funk.”

“Fanchon, my dear child, your blunt words hurt me exceedingly.”

“Well, well,” said Fanchon, kicking one leg against the wainscoting as she spoke – “do go on, hurry up – won’t you? We’ll forget about the lie number one, and remember that you have confessed to having the money. We’ll even try to believe that you meant to spend it on us at Marshlands. Go on from that point, do.”

“I will explain things to you,” said Brenda. “You know your dear father is very ignorant with regard to dress. His simplicity on these matters is most sweet, but at times it almost provokes a smile. Now, if I had spent three pounds on each of you in the little shops at Rocheford; and if Nina, and Josephine, and you – my dear Fanchon, in your silly way – had lost your heads over the pretty things I had bought, he would have been dreadfully startled and would have accused himself of great extravagance in giving you so much money, and when the next occasion came when my dear little pupils wanted pretty clothes, I should have had nothing like as much to spend on you. So your Brenda was – well – cunning, if you choose to call it so, and determined to outwit dear papa; and quite resolved that her little pupils should be charmingly attired at a place where he was not likely to see them.” Fanchon did not speak at all for a minute. After a pause, she said:

“And that was your reason for keeping back the money?”

“Certainly – just to deceive your poor papa; for his good, dear – for his good, and for yours.”

“You’re awfully clever, Brenda,” was Fanchon’s next remark.

Brenda coloured.

“Why do you say that?” she asked.

“Because – because – I know it. You made up that story to-day when you were by yourself, and it’s wonderfully clever – it really is. I suppose you think that we girls believe you.”

“You’ll believe in your pretty frocks, and nice hats, and nice shoes and charming gloves, and also in the little treats at the different tea shops which I mean to give you all out of dear papa’s money – ”

“That is, of course, if we don’t tell,” said Fanchon. “Oh, you can please yourself about that,” said Brenda. “You can tell, and everything will be at an end. I shall go away from here; I will give him back the money – I have it in that drawer – and he will take my poor little character as well, and I’ll wander forth into the world, a desolate and ruined girl. You won’t go to the sea – you’ll stay at home. You’ll have your victory. In a few weeks a horrid, elderly governess with spectacles, and perhaps with a squint, will come here. I’m sure your father will be afraid to get any one young and – and – pretty – again. When she comes, she will give you – ”

“Beans!” said Fanchon. “I know the sort – I – I don’t want a horrible thing like that in the house.”

“No – poor Brenda is better than that, isn’t she?”

“Oh, Brenda, you are so clever,” laughed Fanchon. When Brenda heard that laugh, she knew that her victory was assured.

“My dear girl,” she said, “believe me or not; that was my real reason for keeping back the money, and your terrible little Nina can keep an account of all that I spend at Marshlands, and satisfy her wise, odious little head with the fact that I am not holding back one penny for myself. She can do that, and you can all have a good time. Now – what do you say?”

“It sounds – if you had not told that first lie – it sounds almost as if it could just be believed,” said Fanchon.

“It can be acted on, whether it is believed or not,” remarked Brenda.

Fanchon was silent. Brenda watched her narrowly. “I have something to say to you,” she remarked, all of a sudden. “Of course you won’t speak to your papa and get me dismissed, and lose all your own fun – no three girls would be so mad. But I have something more to say. I want you, Fanchon, to be my friend.”

“Oh – I!” said Fanchon – “but mice are never friendly with cats, are they?”

“You mustn’t think of me as a cat, dear, nor of yourself as a mouse. The simile is very painful, and you know how I have talked to you about the pleasant time I trust to have at Marshlands; and you shall help me, and look very, very smart when you come out with me in the evenings. Do you remember my telling you that if you are my friend, I might get you a little bangle to wear?”

“Oh, yes – but I am certain it would be a horrid gilt thing not worth anything.”

“Fanchon – you are unkind! I told you in the utmost confidence that I had been left a tiny legacy – a little, little sum of money, very precious to poor me, but very small. Well, I did not forget my pupil, and I have bought her a bangle.”

“Oh, Brenda, have you?”

“Yes, dear; and it is made of the best gold for the purpose —eighteen carat gold! You must on no account tell the others a single word about it; but I will give it you sometimes to wear when you and I go out by ourselves in the evenings. It shall shine on your little wrist then, Fanchon, and – how sweet you will look in it!”

“Oh – but may I see it?” said Fanchon, her lips trembling as she spoke.

“Not until you most faithfully promise that you will not say a word about it to the other girls. There are, occasionally, times when I may even want to wear it myself. But it will belong to you – it will be your property, and when we come back from the sea, I will present it to you absolutely. Make me a faithful promise that you will say nothing about the bangle, and you shall constantly wear it when the others are not looking on – and – when we return, it shall be yours!”

“Oh, I promise,” said Fanchon. “I expect I was a sort of a brute this morning – I didn’t understand you could be so kind. Are you making a fool of me, Brenda – do you mean what you say?”

“Of course I mean what I say. You faithfully promise?”

“I do– indeed – indeed; and I will explain things to the others, and I’ll force them to believe me – they generally do everything that I wish. You will buy us all the lovely clothes, won’t you, darling Brenda!”

“I have said so, Fanchon.”

“And you will take me out in the evenings when the other two are in bed?”

“Most certainly I will.”

“Then I will promise everything– I will be your friend through thick and thin, and I’m awfully sorry I was cross to you and – and disbelieved you. Of course, I see that dear papa has to be managed; he is so funny about our dress – so different from other men.”

“Your father is a most saint-like man, and you must never say that he is funny, for that is not right. But saint-like men have to be managed in this unsaintlike world, that is all, dear – every woman understands that, she wouldn’t be worth her salt if she didn’t.”

“Please, please show me the bracelet,” said Fanchon. Then Brenda went to the drawer where her treasures were and took out the little old box where her false jewellery had reposed, and where now the beautiful bangle lay in all its pristine freshness. She hated beyond words to see Fanchon even touch it, but she felt that she had to pay this price to secure her own safety, and she even permitted the girl to clasp it round her wrist, and to look at it with the colour flaming into her cheeks and the light of longing in her dull eyes.